


A Different World

by rilina



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Character Study, Female Protagonist, Gen, POV Minor Character, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-20
Updated: 2008-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilina/pseuds/rilina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tachibana An's college years give her perspective on her own tennis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different World

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through the Shitenhouji arc of the manga.

**Year One**

For Tachibana An, university is an escape—from the confines of her traditional family, from the realities of the Tokyo job market, and most of all, from who she has been until now. It's not that she's been unhappy, and she's seen enough of life to know her school years have been easier than most, thanks to her brother, his teammates, and their collective overprotective tendencies. But so much affection can be stifling. She thinks of the court battles that shaped her friends' lives, and wonders why they never let her fight her own.

So she chooses a second-tier art college, three hours from Tokyo by train, where students are more likely to play in mediocre rock bands than tennis courts outside of class. When An's on campus, she's no longer Tachibana's sister, followed by her brother's reputation as much as her own. She's a nobody, anonymous, just another young woman with a portfolio tucked under one arm.

On her first day of class, she weaves her way through a gauntlet of older students strung along the campus's main walkway. All of them are armed with hastily photocopied fliers in pink and blue and goldenrod, though some are clearly less interested in promoting their clubs than introducing themselves to comely co-eds. An's not offended. She doesn't particularly care about their hobbies either. She politely accepts the handouts, which she drops in the first recycling bin she passes on her way home.

The question she's dreading doesn't catch up with her until several days later, when she's standing before a vending machine, wavering between two brands of canned coffee.

"Juice would be healthier," says a friendly voice behind her. A young man in a paint-spattered shirt is waiting, coins in hand. "Have we met before? No? You must be a first-year then. Want a flier for the tennis club? I'll be honest, no one else does, but I'd promised the president that I'd try to hand these out by the end of the day."

An smiles, and lies.

"Sorry, sempai. I don't play."

* * *

**Year Two**

It's a rite of passage, she supposes, staying up all night with friends to talk and drink and eat. Most of the others are asleep now, sprawled across whatever open space they can find on the apartment's tatami floor, but An and her best friend Makiko are stubbornly finishing off the last of the beer. The conversation eventually turns to romance.

"What about Kurosaki?" her friend asks. "I think he likes you, based on the way he's always hanging around."

"Oh, he's not my type."

"Then who is? What was your last boyfriend like? Have you had one?"

"Just one. He was a tennis player. Nice guy, though not too bright. But I'm never dating a tennis player again?"

"Why not?"

She thinks of the boys she's known and how they were prepared to ruin their bodies to win a stupid tennis championship at age fifteen. "Because they have absolutely no sense of proportion."

* * *

**Year Three**

The outing was supposed to be a picnic, but somehow it's ended up including tennis. An tries to sell her friends on the pleasures of Frisbee and volleyball, but they pull her onto the court and put a racket in her unwilling hands.

"I haven't played in years," she tells them in a last, desperate attempt to avoid exposing her secrets.

"It's just for fun," they tell her. "Don't worry about being good!"

That's impossible, of course. An may have left her tennis rackets at home when she started university, but she still respects the game too much to be satisfied with poor play. And when she's partnered with another woman for a doubles match, she thinks their play is the worst excuse for teamwork that she's seen since Momoshiro and Echizen first showed up at the public courts. She doesn't know what's more frustrating: her own loss of skill and stamina, or her partner's cheerful lack of competitive fire. When she realizes she's the only person on the court who would rather hit winners than endless rallies, she nearly walks off the court in disgust.

Eventually she persuades another student to take her spot, and she slinks away from the courts at the first opportunity. Half an hour passes before Maki finds her sitting on a bench in a shade. Maki holds out an ice cream cone that's already melting over the edge of its waffle cone. "Here. A peace offering."

"For what?"

"For boring you. We must not be very interesting opponents. And if that's how you play when you've been away from the game, I really wouldn't want to play you when you're in top form."

"That was all a long time ago. I wasn't lying when I said I hadn't played in years." An flexes her fingers. They've lost their old strength, but they're remembering other things, like the texture of athletic tape and the weight of a ball. "I don't know what's stranger: how much you do forget, or how much you don't."

"Why did you stop playing? You must have enjoyed it to have gotten as good as you are."

"Why does anyone stop doing something they did when they were young? I don't know. Maybe just because I could."

* * *

**Year Four**

Her mother's birthday brings her home to Tokyo for the weekend. At Friday dinner, it's easy enough to deflect the inevitable questions about her sad lack of job prospects; by Sunday morning, she's wondering why she wanted to stay the entire weekend.

Only Kippei detects the strain in her voice, and he provides her with an escape. It's just like old times; they may be grown up, but he's still watching out for her. "You should take a walk down to the public courts today, for old time's sake. They put in new lights this fall."

She wonders how he knows. It's not like he ever plays there these days, now that his famous friends give him access to all of Tokyo's best private clubs.

The courts have hardly changed at all over the years, though the lights are indeed new, strangely clean amidst the graffiti-covered walls. She sits down in an empty stretch of the bleachers and idly watches the matches. The old rules still seem to apply: one doubles match follows another, and winners keep the court. She wonders what schools the teens play for. No one's wearing a telltale regulars jersey, but some of them are good enough to compete in the city tournament, maybe even at Kantou.

"I say, do you want to play?"

It takes An a moment to realize the question is being addressed to her, and from the tone of voice, it's probably not the first time it's been asked. The speaker's a tall young woman sitting a few feet to the right; her long tanned legs are stretched over the bleachers in front of her, and a tennis bag rests by her feet. Half of her attention remains on the current match as she repeats her question again, this time adding, "I heard I could find a pickup game here, but no one told me that it was doubles only. We could pair up, if you play."

_If you play._ An manages to hide her amusement. There was a time when every regular at the court knew who she was, unless they were hopelessly oblivious, like Momoshiro. "I don't have my racket," she says apologetically. "I just came to watch."

"I have a spare."

"It's been a while since I last played. I'll be rusty."

"Pfft. They're just kids, after all."

"I wouldn't be so quick to underestimate them. I went to school with some talented kids."

"Trust me, it would take a lot to surprise me."

An allows herself to be talked into playing. When her pair's turn finally comes, her partner startles everyone present, including An, by being uncommonly good. Her height gives her an excellent reach and a powerful serve, but more importantly, the younger woman's clearly experienced. Her game has that fierce edge that only comes from high-level competitive play. It's all An can do to keep up. She feels slow; more than that, she feels old. By the time her partner seals their victory, An is too tired to play another match, even though it's their right to keep the court.

An apologizes afterward by buying drinks for both of them from the vending machines. "I've gotten out of shape while I've been away at school."

Her partner's too busy gulping her juice to respond. But when she pauses for air, she only says, "You don't play much like Tachibana-san."

An nearly chokes on her own drink. "My brother? You know him?"

"Of course I do. Your brother spent half his childhood at our house. I'm Senri Miyuki. Chitose's sister."

An can see the familiarity now that she's been told; Miyuki shares her brother's coloring and long-limbed grace. "Oh. Well, I guess I could say the same to you then."

"That's true," Miyuki says. "My tennis is certainly my own. No mystical foresight here. You said you hadn't been playing much?"

"I've been busy." An offers the easy, familiar excuses. "It's my last year of university. I've been applying to jobs, finishing my graduation project. That sort of thing."

"Of course, that sort of thing," Miyuki echoes, and An knows the other woman has seen right through her. "Well, if you ever want to play singles, give me a call. I'd love to know what your tennis is really like."

"Nothing special."

"What makes you say that? You don't have to be a national-level teenager to be worth playing." She downs the rest of her drink, then adds mischievously, "Though decent conditioning does help, you know."

There's only one appropriate response to that statement, and An laughs as she makes it. "Oh, stop being cheeky, brat."

* * *

**Several months later**

An receives a special delivery package from her brother on her first day at her new job. Her curious colleagues at the design firm peer over her shoulder as she opens the gift. She's the only one who's not surprised by the contents.

There's a moment of silence before one of the project managers says, "Aren't flowers more traditional? Or a nice potted plant?"

"It's a long story," she tells them. "It's really very nice of him to have my racket restrung for me."

"So I take it you play?" someone asks.

"Yeah," An says, smiling. "I do."


End file.
